


Good Things Ahead

by perfectpro



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 34 Days Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6937024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectpro/pseuds/perfectpro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn't want to go to a party, but Kent's pretty sure that he can be convinced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Mountain Goat's "This Year" which I imagine to be the soundtrack to Jack's life in the months coming up to the overdose.

Kent’s standing at the door, looking impatient. “Come on, I told Nina we’d go,” he says, but Jack really doesn’t see why that’s suddenly his problem. Jack barely even knows Nina; she’s not going to care if he doesn’t come. Kent seems to sense this, because he elaborates, “Her friend Grace said she really wanted you there.”

That’s not that good of a reason either, and Jack rolls his eyes. “Nina invited me because she wanted you there,” he explains, tired of having to go through this. Kent is the popular one, and he’s Jack’s best friend, so people are just kind of used to inviting Jack to wherever they want Kent to go.

Rolling his eyes, Kent goes to Jack’s closet and opens it. “Nina invited you because she wants you there. Hence the invitation,” he presses, flipping through clothes. Jack doesn’t know what he’s looking for. “And Grace does like you, you know. I wasn’t making that up.” He holds out a blue shirt briefly before putting it back and moving further into the closet. Jack doesn’t even know what’s on that side of the closet.

“Grace Hooper?” Jack asks, and Kent nods. “Why does that matter?” It’s not like it being another Grace would have made a difference, although Jack doesn’t know any other Graces.

“God bless your mother’s good taste. Too bad it wasn’t hereditary,” Kent says at last, pulling out a blue button down. He faces Jack and holds it up, nodding at last, ignoring the face Jack’s making at him. “And it doesn’t matter, other than proving to you that people want you at this party. So you’re going to get dressed and come with me. Besides, I need you to drive.”

“I can’t,” Jack says, tossing the puck from his dresser and catching it. When Kent doesn’t say anything, he goes on, “I didn’t wash the car when Maman asked, so I can’t use it.”

Kent rolls his eyes, and Jack knows it even though he’s not looking. “Jesus, Zimms. Nice looking out.” He’s moved out of the closet and over to the bathroom, messing around in drawers that Jack doesn’t even use. They’re probably empty.

Catching the puck and tossing it back up, Jack shrugs. “Well, I didn’t know that you were going to drag me to some party. Besides, why can’t we take your car?” he asks, and he thinks it’s a fair question. Kent drove over here, after all, so it’s not like he doesn’t have the car.

“If we take my car, you’ve got to drive back. I’m planning on getting drunk,” Kent says, poking his head out of the bathroom and holding a glass bottle of something up. “This aftershave is nice; you should use it more often.”

Jack squints, trying to think of where in his bathroom he even found it. Maybe those drawers aren’t empty after all. “I can drive back,” he allows, because he doesn’t mind. They’ll probably leave fairly late anyway, enough time for Jack to have a beer or two early on in the night and relax and by the time they’ll have worn off, everyone else will be drunk, which he finds more amusing than annoying.

“Yeah, sure. Last time you said that, I drove back and had to take a pit stop while you puked in a stranger’s lawn.” Kent throws the bottle of what is apparently aftershave on Jack’s bed. “Put the blue shirt on and use that after,” he announces, still rummaging through drawers.

“I’m not going to the party,” Jack calls back, but even knows that by now he’s fighting a losing battle. If Kent wants to go to a party, they usually end up going to a party unless Jack can find a good enough excuse to get out of it. When that happens, they’ll stay in and do nothing, watch TV and make out and talk about when they’re going to put their Cup days when they finally win the Cup on the same team.

There’s a small thud, and Jack arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, and then Kent appears in the doorway, glaring. “Zimms, if you think I’m leaving you alone to ring in the New Year, you’re sorely mistaken, buddy. Now put on your party shirt.”

Jack kind of hates when Kent gets like this, and he stays where is just to be contrary, not even looking towards the shirt. “You don’t have to leave me alone. We can watch the ball drop here,” he suggests. He doesn’t feel like being around so many people right now. “Who’s even going to this party?”

“The team, a bunch of kids from school. Evans said his girlfriend was bringing some girls from her school, but I forget where that was.” Kent looks wholly unimpressed with Jack before grabbing the blue shirt and actually throwing it at him.

Removing the shirt from where it had landed on his head, Jack knocked it onto the floor. “St. Mary’s,” he says.

Kent arches an eyebrow.

“Evans’s girlfriend goes to St. Mary’s. They met at church,” Jack elaborates. Evans hadn’t been able to stop talking about her since they’d started dating.

“Yeah, well, good for them. Come on, put on the shirt or we’re going to be late,” Kent tells him.

Jack looks at the clock. “You said it started at 10, and it’s 10 now. It’s going to take at least fifteen minutes to get over there, probably closer to thirty considering traffic on New Years Eve, so really, we’re already late.” As far as he can tell, this is only more reason to not go at all.

Picking his snapback up off the floor, Kent rolls his eyes. It’s a wide, sweeping motion, one that Jack is so familiar with he could probably do a Claymation of it and break it down into hundreds of dreams. If he knew how to do Claymation, that is. “Yeah, but we’re going for fashionably late, which is fine. You’re holding us up, so by the time that we get there we’re no longer fashionably late; we’re just assholes.”

“At least they’d be right about one of us,” Jack teases, and Kent grins, marching over to the chair and climbing on.

Lap full of Kent, Jack swallows. Kent doesn’t stop grinning, leans forward and adjusts until he’s straddling Jack. “Fuck off,” he says, but it’s a full-fledged smile now, and Jack can’t help but lean forward and press their lips together. “I’m an asshole, but you still like me,” Kent starts, and Jack just brings an arm around to press against Kent’s neck, holding him into the kiss. Kent responds immediately, running his hands over Jack’s neck and along his jaw.

Tilting his head back, Jack breaks away just to comment, “I don’t know why.” It’s long enough to where Kent gets impatient and slides his hands down to the hem of Jack’s shirt, pushing up against it. Jack gets the message, quickly enough, but first he moves back to the kiss, deepening it easily when Kent dives down to meet him, but it’s not hurried.

It’s been a few days since the last time they did this, slow and almost lazy, and Jack’s grinning too hard to kiss Kent back properly. Kent smirks at him and moves away from Jack’s mouth, snaking his tongue down Jack’s throat and stopping to bite down hard on where the stretched out collar of his shirt reveals his collarbone.

“Jesus, Kenny,” Jack hisses, jumping at the unexpected feeling. Kent doesn’t really care, though, just keeps moving further down until he’s off the chair and kneeling. And, okay, this is an image that features fairly prominently in Jack’s dreams, and it doesn’t matter how often he sees it, he’s never going to get over how good Kent looks like this.

Kent flexes his hands on Jack’s hips and then scrapes a blunt fingernail at where his shirt’s ridden up to show a sliver of his flat stomach. He tugs at the hem of the shirt almost absentmindedly. “Get that off,” he says, and Jack is quick to comply, grabbing his shirt and lifting it off immediately.

Once Jack’s shirtless, Kent smirks and then stands, grabbing the blue shirt Jack had tossed on the floor early and depositing it in Jack’s lap. “I helped you get it off. Now put that on; we’re going to be late.”

Jack freezes. Kent arches an eyebrow, clearly unperturbed by the whole situation.

“You’re such an asshole,” Jack hisses, because really?

“I thought we already went over that. Don’t worry about the aftershave, that’s what I was doing when I hand my hands on your jaw,” Kent replies, taking out a tube of Chapstick and applying it quickly. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

Jack grabs the blue shirt and looks at it, incredulous.

With another roll of his eyes, Kent picks up his hat and messes up his hair quickly. “If you come to the party, I’ll give you a blow job,” he negotiates, because Jack is easy for those, and it’s not like it’s really a sacrifice on Kent’s part.

“You were just going to give me a blow job,” Jack says, sounding distressed. Kent tries very hard to just stare at Jack’s abs and ignore what’s actually coming out of his mouth. It’s not a technique he employs that often, but it’s very effective.

“And now I’m giving you a rain check. Consider it the promise of your first blow job in 2009,” Kent explains graciously. And yeah, he’s a cheater when it comes to these types of things, but if it’s a fair fight it just means that someone’s tactics suck. After all, Jack’s had two years to figure out how Kent gets what he wants.

Jack looks back at the blue shirt, staring down at it intently. He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something, but then he shuts it again. Kent almost feels bad for him. Then he huffs silently and starts putting his arms through the sleeves. Kent does a mental fist pump.

When Jack’s finally dressed and outright pouting at Kent, Kent grabs his car keys from the nightstand and checks to make sure he has his wallet on him. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says, trying to be comforting. He’s not sure it’s working, considering Jack only glares at him. “See some people, wow the crowds, take some shots, stay until midnight, and then we can come back and sleep off our hangovers. Do you think your mom will make those blueberry muffins if I ask her to?”

Jack rolls his eyes, shutting his bedroom door behind them and checking to make sure the side door of the house is locked. “You’re the absolute worst,” he says, and Kent can’t help but grin, leaning in and slipping an arm around Jack’s waist. It’s best to go ahead with the physical affection while they can, before they’re around other people.

“So are you saying she’s not going to make the muffins?” Because Kent really likes those muffins. He may or may not have considered basing an entire meal plan around those muffins. Their team nutritionist would have his head for it, but it would be totally worth it. He probably wouldn’t even lose that much weight in the playoffs.

Elbowing Kent, Jack stops in front of the alarm system and sighs. “You still want to go to this party,” he states, because while he’s kind of accepted it, he’d still be fine staying in. When Kent doesn’t correct him, he sets the alarm and walks over to the garage.

It’s easy to tell how reluctant Jack is about it, so Kent works a little harder at convincing him. “2009 is going to be our year. Top two NHL draft picks, we’re going to be in the big leagues. Next year, we might both have press to do so we probably won’t get to bring in the new year together. So let’s go see our friends act like drunken idiots, I’ll dance while you stand around drinking beer and having girls flock to you, and we’ll come back and I’ll see if you’re still interested in my offer.”

Once the garage door is shut, Jack turns and arches an eyebrow, and for a moment Kent thinks that he’s about to go inside and insist that Kent go on his own. He doesn’t, though. Jack just steps forward until their chests are almost pressed together, and he says, “I’m pretty sure I’ll still be interested.”

Great, now Kent’s the one thinking about backing out. Because he could go to a party that he’s not even all that interested in anymore, or he could go inside and have Jack Zimmermann spread out beneath him, which, while always a favorite option, is looking better and better by the minute. Still, he’s come this far, and he’s not going to back down now. Kent pauses, and when he’s sure his voice won’t give him away, he steps over to his car and says, “Cool.”

Jack seems to know anyway, judging by the smug grin that he’s wearing.

In the car, as Kent speeds down back roads to avoid the traffic, he looks at Jack in the rear view mirror. “2009 is our year. We’re going pro.” Jack smiles a little bit, but he looks sad, and Kent can’t have that, so he slides one hand off the steering wheel and onto Jack’s leg. “We’re still going to see each other all the time, you know. I mean, there’s still the draft lottery, but we both know you’re going to Vegas, and you’re going to need a guest room for all the time that I’m going to be over there.”

Because wherever Kent goes, he figures it doesn’t matter that much. They’ll both play for a couple of years and then work their cards right to get traded to the same team. No matter how much fun it is to play against Zimms on the ice, it’s even better to play with him. Besides, their no look passes are the stuff of legends, and Kent knows they’ll be that much closer to the Stanley Cup if they’re playing with each other

“2009,” Jack says, sounding contemplative. Jack is a lot more wary of the future than Kent, but Kent really doesn’t know why. Jack’s going to go first in the draft, Kent will be right behind him, and they’ll spend their first season competing for the Calder and maybe the Art Ross. And the Art Ross is a little farther fetched, sure, but why not? Crosby won it at 19, why shouldn’t either of them be able to?

“Our year,” Kent repeats, reinforcing it. Their future is unfolding before them, and it’s clear as day where it’s taking them.

Jack pauses, which in and of itself isn’t a bad sign. Jack’s a quiet guy, and Kent watches out of the corner of his eye to gauge an expression, figure out if Jack’s not talking right now because there isn’t anything left to say or because he doesn’t want to say something. They’re pulling up to the house now, so if Jack has something to say, he’s either going to say it now or never.

Kent purposefully takes his time parking the car, making sure that he’s perfectly parallel to the curb. He goes so far as to back up and do it again, but Jack doesn’t look like he’s any closer to saying something, so he puts it in park and climbs out, waiting for Jack to come around the other side before they start walking up to the house. The music is blaring, something techno that sounds ridiculous but probably has good base.

“Remember that you’re the one driving back tonight.” Because Kent really doesn’t want a repeat of last time. Plus, things never go well when he has to be the Responsible Drunk Friend.

“I know, I know. Oh, and Kent?” Jack mentions when they’re at the steps, and Kent turns in surprise. He really hadn’t been expecting Jack to say whatever it was once they’d left the car. “This better be the best blow job of my life.”

Jesus Christ. Kent wobbles a little bit as he follows Jack up the steps. Forget the guest room, Kent’s going to be better off just flat out moving to Vegas.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [helpless-in-sleep](http://helpless-in-sleep.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, so come on over and we can talk about Kent "hit me, baby, one more time" Parson.


End file.
